


The sweet fulfillment of their secret longing

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Happy Ending, Johnlock Gift Exchange, Light Angst, M/M, Romance, Star John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5528786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wishes he were human again. Sherlock just wishes for a friend. This is the story of how they made each other’s wishes come true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **FIC IS NOW COMPLETE**
> 
>  
> 
> This is a gift fic for thereichenbachjazz as part of the Johnlock Christmas Exchange. I was intrigued by one of the prompts offered, which was Star John. Jazz, I hope you like what I came up with! An AU with a dash of fluff, a dash of angst, and a happy ending had by all. 
> 
> The story demanded to be told a certain way and took longer in its telling than originally intended, so I hope you'll forgive me that the second part was delayed! Please enjoy.
> 
> Many thanks to prettybirdy979, besina, and Zwaluw for helping me with this and offering great suggestions. You guys rock!
> 
>  
> 
> Title is taken from the Disney song, "When You Wish Upon a Star."

 

 

_"A philosopher once said  'Are we human because we gaze at the stars, or do we gaze at them because we are human? Pointless, really. Do the stars gaze back? Now THAT'S a question."_

_\---_ Stardust

_  
_

***

**  
**

**  
**

**THE FREAK**

**_London, The Latter Part of the 20th Century_ **

 

 

One would think he would have gotten used to it at some point. The teasing, the cruel remarks. The name-calling. He knew he was different from his peers; set apart somehow. He wasn’t sure what made him so; only that he was. At first he tried to fit in, mostly because his parents wanted him to so badly. But all of his attempts at connection were rebuffed. He simply didn’t have the skills needed to maintain the friendships that came so easily to others.  At the age of seven he was already more perceptive than a child twice his age, if that child wasn’t Mycroft. His intelligence was frightfully intimidating. It wasn’t long before one nickname in particular stuck.

 

Freak.

 

It was dehumanizing, the things he was called and the way he was treated. It was no wonder that he would respond in kind. When one isn’t treated with common human decency, one stops behaving like a human being.

 

At some point, one even stops believing that they are one.

 

 

 ***

 

 

**THE DOCTOR**

**_Afghanistan, 1880_ **

 

 

There was nobody more human than Dr John H. Watson, army doctor and captain in her Majesty’s army. He wore his compassion like a badge of honour, his heart on his sleeve for all to see, just like the red cross he _literally_ wore around his sleeve when he went out into the field to collect the wounded. Harriet constantly sneered at him for his too-soft heart and his tendency to forgive easily. As if being those things was in any way something to be ashamed of. That was one of the reasons he and his sister had never got along.

 

At least in the middle of a war-zone, when a doctor’s skill was sometimes called upon on an hourly basis, his warm spirit was lauded rather than ridiculed.

 

Watson also had a gregarious nature, which served him well in keeping the melancholy and loneliness at bay. He was always surrounded by men looking for a card game or for storytelling around a campfire. He was beloved by his men, respected by his peers, and trusted implicitly by his superiors. Everyone liked John Watson.

 

It all came crashing down one horrific summer night. Caught in a firefight, a sniper’s bullet found its way into his right thigh - his femoral artery, to be exact. As he lay there on the desert floor, watching his life’s blood soak into the surrounding sand, he knew that there was no hope. He was going to bleed out in this godforsaken country, thousands of miles away from home, and there would be no one left behind to mourn him. Suddenly, the futility of his life slammed into his chest and left him gasping for air, panic washing over him. His eyes darted around, desperate to find aid in whatever form presented itself, human or otherwise.

 

He caught sight of the twinkling stars above him, mocking him with their stark beauty and cold indifference. In a last ditch effort to keep hold of his corporeal existence, he squeezed his eyes shut and offered up the most heartfelt prayer he had ever prayed.

 

“Please, God,” he begged, “let me live.”

 

Then he mercifully blacked out.

 

 

 

When he regained consciousness, he found that the joke was on him. He was now several light years above the earth’s surface, shining like a beacon in the night and yet stripped of all humanity.

 

John Watson had become a star.

 

 

 ***

 

 

**THE DETECTIVE**

**_London, 2010_ **

 

 

Sherlock Holmes stood on the rooftop of Bart’s, smoking his second cigarette. These days he only allowed himself two per day, and he made sure to linger over each one for as long as he could. His analysis would take another thirty minutes to complete, and this was as good a place as any to clear his mind and calm his jittery nerves. He wasn’t sure why he felt so restive, as if his skin was stretched too tight and his insides were scrambling to escape their confines.

 

He wasn’t _bored,_ exactly. He had plenty on his plate to keep his restless mind occupied. His chemistry degree was being put to good use; Mike Stamford had hired him straight out of university to run his research lab, and it was all very exciting and cutting edge. Sherlock was also carving out a nice little niche for himself on the side by helping Scotland Yard solve crimes in his spare time. His life really was very full and productive.

 

And yet… there was something lacking. Something essential. A cold ball of _longing_ seemed to have lodged itself in Sherlock’s chest permanently, and he had no idea how to define it or how to go about getting rid of it. At first he wondered if he was experiencing what some people called the seven year itch. It _had_ been seven years since he had graduated from Cambridge and taken on this position. Maybe the routine of it all had become too mundane for him.

 

But when he thought about it a little more, he had to admit that he had been carrying this feeling around with him for a very long time. He had just lately become more aware of its existence. It drove him crazy that he couldn’t put a name to it.

 

He had kept himself distant from the rest of humanity for so long, believing himself exempt from anything so common as _feelings,_ that he didn’t recognise that what he was experiencing was _loneliness._

 

He took a final drag from his cigarette and squinted up into the night sky. One never saw much of the stars in London, but Sherlock caught a glimpse of one twinkling through the cloud cover. There was nothing especially notable about it, but he found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Then a strange and unexpected thing happened. Suddenly, the cold ball in his chest erupted into heat, suffusing his entire body and compelling him to open his mouth to chant a familiar childhood verse:

 

 

_Star light, star bright,_

_First star I see tonight,_

_I wish I may, I wish I might,_

_Have this wish I wish tonight._

 

 

Then - completely unbidden - his secret, suppressed yearning burst forth from his lips:

 

“I wish that I had a friend.”

 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the clouds parted, revealing a host of other lights in the night sky. But Sherlock’s eyes were fixed only on the one he had wished on, and as he watched, that particular star started to glow. It pulsed with energy, growing brighter and brighter with each passing moment, until it drowned out all the remaining stars with its brilliance. Then, without warning, it exploded outward in a flash of light, throwing off sparks in all directions. Sherlock flinched, instinctively throwing up a hand to shield his face.

 

When the brightness had faded, Sherlock lifted his head. Residual motes danced before his eyes. He blinked and shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision. The other stars in the sky gradually reasserted their presence. Sherlock squinted into the night. What he saw - or rather, _didn’t_ see - made his jaw drop in disbelief.

 

The space that his star had previously occupied was now dark and utterly, utterly empty.

 

His star had completely vanished from the night sky.

 

_Impossible._

 

 

***

 

 

**THE STAR**

_**1880 - 2010** _

 

 

For several decades, John twinkled and shone down upon the earth. He watched Earth’s denizens, observing their progress and their interactions, all the while wishing that he were one of them again. He felt the loss of his humanity keenly, and mourned it daily. As the months turned into years and the years turned into decades, the details of his past life slipped through the fingers of his memory like sands through an hourglass. There were certain things he’d never forget: his own name, the names of those he had known and loved, the fact that he had been a doctor and a soldier. The manner in which he had ‘died’.

 

But the minutia that made up day to day living, all the specific moments that served to define him and set him apart from every other person on the planet? _Those_ were the things that eluded him whenever he tried to think back on his life. And it wasn’t just the clarity of the details that were fading, but also what it had _felt_ like during those times.

 

The camaraderie and rapport enjoyed with fellow soldiers celebrating a comrade’s birthday as they sat around the flickering flames of a campfire underneath a sky full of stars.

 

The connection and transcendence achieved when experiencing physical intimacy with someone for the first time.

 

The joy and pride that had filled him when he received his medical credentials in the presence of his fellow classmates.

 

Those were the things he missed the most, what he longed for once again.

 

It was all disappearing into the mists of time.

 

Then there was the loneliness.

 

For all that he was surrounded by thousands of other stars, he was utterly alone. They were all so cold and remote, he hardly felt connected to them at all, let alone felt a sense of kinship with them. Several had the privilege of serving as parts of major constellations. Some were so well-known and important that they were given the honour of names, like Sirius and Polaris. John, however, served no purpose beyond being a solitary pinprick in the sky. He was an afterthought, and that was his own fault, really. He had dared to want to live, and the universe in its infinite wisdom had made room for him, carving out a space for him to occupy.

 

But that was all he was doing - taking up space. Merely existing. He had no impact on or influence over anything around him; he wasn’t part of anything bigger than himself.

 

In other words, nothing happened to him.

 

Until…..

 

 

**THE FALL**

**_January, 2010_ **

 

 

One-hundred and thirty years after John Watson was shot in the deserts of Afghanistan and ascended to the heavens as a star, he felt the gaze of a young human male and heard his heartfelt plea. He was shocked to the core of his being. He hadn’t heard the voice of another human being since he himself had been one. One of the first things he had been taught as a fledgling star was that the only time he’d be able to hear a human’s voice would be if one were to make a wish on him. No one had ever wished on John before. Most wishes were made on the brightest star, or at least one that had a name. Shooting stars were known to be solicited at times, although they weren’t even technically stars.

 

This was something _new._

 

John felt a tug underneath his breastbone, and a sensation unlike anything he’d experienced since taking on his current form. He felt a pulse of _life_ thrum through him; if he didn’t know any better he would have sworn that he recognised the pumping of blood through his veins. Only he had no blood and he had no veins - furthermore, he had no heart with which to pump it! But there was no denying that his physical self was straining towards the Earth, towards the one who had called to him with such a desperate plea.

 

He could easily answer the call and let himself fall. Wasn’t this what he had been missing, what he had been pining for all these years? To walk the earth again as a living, breathing person? To talk with his fellow man again, to converse and to laugh and to love?

 

Oh, to feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. To feel the muscles flexing under his skin. To smell the fragrance of flowers on the air, and to taste the burst of flavour on his tongue once more….

 

All the person was asking for was a friend. John knew how to be a friend. Or at least he _had_ known, at one point. A very long time ago. He was sure that he could learn how to be one again.

 

Maybe in granting this human’s wish, he might just receive one of his own as well.

 

He wasn’t aware that he had made his decision until he heard the words “ **SHERLOCK HOLMES”** echo loudly inside his ‘head’. With that, his entire self was engulfed in white flame, hot and intense. He screamed as the pain swept through him, reminiscent of his injury in Afghanistan but much worse. It went on for so long that he thought he was going to pass out.

 

Then it stopped as abruptly as it had begun. For a split second John teetered on the edge, but in the end it wasn’t even a choice, not really. All he had to do was envision himself walking on two legs and talking to the person beside him, and he was lost. John gave in and let himself fall.

 

 

***

 

 

**THE MEETING**

**_January 29, 2010_ **

 

 

Ever since he had watched a star literally fall out of the sky, Sherlock had walked around with a perpetual sense of anticipation coiled in his belly. This wasn’t the same restless ennui that had been dogging his footsteps these past few months; no, this was something else entirely. He was energised, adrenaline coursing through his veins. It wasn’t manic or unfocused energy, either; quite the opposite. His concentration and clarity of mind was on sparkling form. During the past two weeks, his productivity in the lab was unparalleled and he had solved eight cold cases for Scotland Yard. He was sleeping and eating better than he had in _years._ It was like all of his systems had suddenly come into alignment with each other and in balance with the rest of the world. The feeling he had identified as _loneliness_ was still there, lurking in the background, but it didn’t take up as much of his mental space as it had been.

 

Sherlock didn’t quite know what to make of it.

 

In the back of his mind, he knew it had something to do with what he had experienced that night on the roof. He couldn’t discount what he had seen; after all, Sherlock relied on the empirical above all else. What it _meant,_ though, and how it tied in with what he had _felt_ … that was a mystery, and one worth solving.

 

The only thing was, Sherlock had no idea how to start deciphering it.

 

He needn’t have worried, because as it turned out, the mystery showed up of its own accord, practically on his very doorstep.

 

 

Sherlock was in the middle of a critical experiment when Mike walked through the door with someone in tow. The gait and voice was unfamiliar to him, so he glanced up briefly as the two of them entered the lab. He almost dropped his pipette when he saw who - or rather, _what -_ was following Mike.

 

The figure was short, male and humanoid in shape. He was clearly dressed in appropriate casual attire, and walked with the support of a cane. But the outline of his body was not well-defined; instead, a sort of shimmering light surrounded him, making him blurry and indistinct around the edges. This would have been merely fascinating, except for the fact that the man also _had no face._ Short blond hair sprouted from his head, but in the place normally populated by features such as eyes and nose and mouth, there was a blank space just begging to be filled in. No, _blank_ wasn’t quite the correct word. There wasn’t an _absence_. It was as if a glowing radiance was obscuring that which was present, yet hidden. As if this man was just waiting to be unmasked.

 

As if he was waiting to be unmasked specifically by _Sherlock._

 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to Mike, who gave no indication that there was anything unusual about his companion. He was introducing him as someone interested in his research, as if he were just an ordinary man. But Sherlock sensed that he was anything but.

 

Sherlock carefully put down his pipette, and slowly walked over to the man. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the stranger, trying to make out anything that would provide him with data. After a few moments of processing his observations, parsing the relevant details and separating them from the rest, he arrived at his initial conclusions.

 

Smiling widely, he held out his hand and asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

  

  ** _TBC...._**

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part of thereichenbachjazz's johnlock exchange fic. I apologise for the delay in posting this chapter; the story demanded a certain direction and so I followed it there. I do hope the result satisfies. 
> 
> Once again, HUGE thanks and gratitude to prettybirdy979, besina and Zwaluw. They were all so supportive with so many suggestions and ideas, many of which I incorporated into the story. Much love back to you guys.
> 
> Also, a big shout out to Ariane_Devere's transcripts, found [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/), which helped tremendously in referencing specific dialogue.

 

 

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sat across from each other in Speedy’s Cafe. It had now been several hours since their meeting at Bart’s, when John had finagled his way into the lab by telling Mike he was interested in the research that he and Sherlock were working on. His story was that he was a medical man himself, and had been keeping up with everything the two of them had published within the past several years. It had been obvious from the start that this was just a cover story to enable John to get close to him. What wasn’t so obvious was _why._

 

John was obviously a medical man of some sort. He had also been involved in combat of some kind, so a soldier as well. In Afghanistan, if Sherlock wasn’t misinterpreting the data. And yet, he wasn’t quite _human_ either.

 

Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his face and studied John. John continued to sit there serenely, arms folded on the table in front of him, head tilted as if he were studying Sherlock in return. Although of course with no face, Sherlock had no idea where he was actually looking or what he was seeing.

 

“So,” Sherlock began slowly, “an extraterrestrial.”

 

John lifted a shoulder. “In a manner of speaking,” he replied. Sherlock had no idea how he was speaking without a mouth to form the words, but somehow he was.

 

Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips. “How did you sustain your leg injury? Was it the result of your spaceship crashing?”

 

Sherlock didn’t know how he knew, but it seemed to him that John was amused. “Space ship? No.”

 

“So it’s psychosomatic then?”

 

“What? Of course it’s not, do you think I’m mad?” John reached down and rubbed at his right thigh. “It’s an actual wound. Healing well, but slowly.”

 

“So you _were_ shot.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In Afghanistan.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You crashed in Afghanistan, and you were captured by the military. You were taken to some top secret government facility -- Baskerville, perhaps -- and they did experiments on you. But you escaped.”

 

John shook his head. “No.”

 

Sherlock leaned forward and fixed John with his most intimidating glare. “You sought me out. You figured out where to find me, and here you are, and yet you won’t tell me what it is that you want. Who _are_ you, John Watson?”

 

John shrugged. “I’m nobody. Just a man trying to live an ordinary life.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “And yet you’re inexplicable. To everyone else you look like an ordinary man, but to me you shine with some kind of radiance. You seem to be human, or can mimic it anyway, and yet you clearly aren’t. I can’t even make out your face. Why is that? What are you to me?”

 

“Nothing, yet. But I can be. If you let me. Maybe I can start out as a mystery for you to solve. How does that sound, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

Sherlock was intrigued in spite of himself. Everything about this screamed _Impossible,_ and yet here they were. There was something about the two of them together, something connecting them. Very briefly his mind flicked back to the night on the rooftop, when he had wished upon a star - when he had wished for a friend, and then seen the impossible happen. And then afterwards, the sense of anticipation that he had felt, something that he couldn’t explain….

 

Maybe the only friend he could have was one that wasn’t quite human, since he himself wasn’t either. Birds of a feather.

 

Sherlock sat up straight in his chair, eyes still on John. _Why not,_ he thought. _What have you got to lose? This is the most interesting thing to happen to you in years._ Decision made, he nodded.

 

“John Watson, I have just recently vacated my old residence and find myself in need of a flatmate. Would you be interested?”

 

If John could smile, Sherlock was sure that was what his face would be doing right now. He could hear it in his voice as he replied.

 

“Oh god yes.”

 

***

 

_“Who’s this?”_

 

_“He’s with me.”_

 

_“Yes, but who is he?”_

 

_“I_ said _, he’s with me.”_

 

***

 

_“You’re not his friend. He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”_

 

_“I’m nobody. Not yet, anyway. I just met him. But someday…. “_

 

***

 

_“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”_

 

_“You’ve met him. How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend_ _that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”_

 

_“And what’s that?”_

 

_“An enemy.”_

 

_“You’re wrong, you know. Everyone is capable of having a friend.”_

 

***

 

_“This is my friend, John Watson.”_

 

_“_ Friend? _”_

 

_“Friend, and colleague. Pleased to meet you.”_

 

***

 

Sherlock and John settled easily into domestic life at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock started taking John along with him on his cases, where he proved to be quite luminous himself on several occasions. When John started writing up their cases, Sherlock found it unaccountably endearing that he painstakingly typed them out with two fingers on Sherlock’s laptop. Sherlock knew there was a clue right there as to John’s identity, and he filed it away in his mind palace to be analysed later.

 

There were a lot of things that Sherlock picked up on and stored away during their shared residency. John tended to favour clothing that was a bit out of fashion. He didn’t know how to drive a car. His interactions with any form of technology indicated that he was either a Luddite of the highest order, or he had never encountered such things before. He spoke English just fine, but his accent was just a bit off, and his speech patterns tended to be slightly archaic.

 

And sometimes, Sherlock just asked and John just answered. Yes, John had been a military man. A captain, to be precise, with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Yes, he had also been a doctor. His full name was John Hamish Watson. He had a sister named Harriet. At one point he had attended Bart’s.

 

During these conversations, Sherlock’s eyes would narrow and the gears in his mind would engage full throttle. Trying to figure out the mystery that was John Watson.

 

And during all this time, the two of them grew steadily closer. Flatmates became colleagues became friends. The transition was subtle and almost unnoticeable, but it happened all the same. And as it happened, Sherlock and John felt changes within themselves.

 

Sherlock was content and relaxed in John’s presence. The loneliness he had always held at bay diminished until it was basically nonexistent. And John felt his strangeness and _otherness_ gradually settle into a familiar feeling. As if he finally _belonged_ somewhere again. As if he had come home.

 

Sherlock was making a friend, and John was regaining his humanity.

 

And slowly, imperceptibly at first, John’s appearance began to change.

 

***

 

John first noticed the changes about two months after moving in. They were colleagues by this point, John going on cases with Sherlock and blogging about them -- but they hadn’t quite slipped over into friendship territory yet. For someone whose greatest wish had been to have a friend, Sherlock seemed strangely resistant to the idea at first. It was almost as if he couldn’t quite believe that another being would tolerate his presence for long enough to get to that point. But John continued chipping away at the wall. And little by little, the wall gave way and started letting John in.

 

That was John’s perspective, anyway. But whenever John interacted with any of Sherlock’s other acquaintances, they all gave off the impression that Sherlock’s behaviour had changed almost overnight after meeting John.

 

“You didn’t know him before, John, and I’m telling you the difference is like night and day,” Lestrade was saying as they watched Sherlock prance around the crime scene while they stood a discreet distance away.

 

“He could barely tolerate people on his best days -- he still can’t, to be honest -- but the first time he showed up with you at my crime scene, he was like a different person. He actually solicited your opinion, treated you with respect…. Christ, he treated you as if you were an actual human being.”

 

John startled at that. Did Lestrade know? “What do you mean, ‘as if’?”

 

Lestrade laughed. “Oh come on, John; you know him well enough by now. When does Sherlock ever treat _anybody_ like a human being?”

 

John relaxed. “Well, he seems pretty sweet on Mrs Hudson.”

 

“He does have his moments, I’ll give ya that. But you two had something right from the start. Suddenly out of the blue he has a flatmate and an assistant, when he never had either one before.” Lestrade eyed John speculatively. “What makes you so special, then? He never did introduce you properly. I don’t even know how you two met.”

 

John shrugged. He repeated the backstory that he and Sherlock had come up with, which was mostly the truth with a bit of embellishment. “I was an army doctor, recently invalided out of Afghanistan. I needed cheap accommodations, so an old friend I went to school with introduced us. Sherlock was in need of a flatmate, so we decided to give it a go.”

 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at that. “Sherlock, in need of a flatmate? If you say so, mate.”

 

John left it at that. And Lestrade hadn’t been the only one. Mrs Hudson and Molly were both quick to chime in as well on Sherlock before and after John.

 

And when John thought about it, Sherlock really had been quite generous with John from the very beginning, offering up both his home and his work to share with him. He had been very free with these outward gestures of friendship, and asking for nothing in return save John’s companionship. It was just connecting with the inner man that John had to work at. Eventually, even that started falling into place, and John finally felt like he had well and truly found his home.

 

One morning when John woke up, he looked down at himself and noticed that the light surrounding his body had ever so slightly dimmed. He got up and looked at himself in the mirror. He seemed less fuzzy around the edges, just a bit more…. solid. He still didn’t have any features on his face, but his chin and ears had taken on more prominence.

 

Not only had John started to _feel_ more human; now he was beginning to _look_ more human as well. He felt a little thrill go through him, and even though the smile didn’t physically appear, he smiled anyway at his reflection, and gave himself a thumbs up.

 

****

 

Six months after John had moved in, Sherlock had cut back his research at Bart’s to part time in order to accommodate the influx of private cases brought on by his work at the Yard and John’s case write-ups. This also allowed for John to finally draw an actual wage and start paying for things himself as Sherlock made him his partner and split all income down the middle. They were spending more and more time together, getting to know and trust each other -- and their friendship flourished.

 

And yet Sherlock _still_ hadn’t managed to solve the mystery of who John was.

 

He seemed to be a paradox, which made it even harder to determine his identity. Sometimes he conducted himself with a high degree of competency, and then some completely mundane task would leave him flummoxed and frustrated. Sherlock dragged him all over London for cases, and often John would interact with his environment and with other people with the ease of familiarity. And yet just as often, Sherlock would catch him looking up or around while radiating a sense of awe; during those times, even though there was no expression on his face, Sherlock would swear that he was gaping at something with wide-eyed wonder.

 

Sometimes John would be bouncing around with endless energy and boundless joy, and then a short time later he would be immersed in melancholy with an aura of deep sadness surrounding him.

 

Sometimes John seemed ageless and timeless; at other times he seemed ancient and bowed down with the weight of centuries.

 

And during all this time - all this time that the two of them spent together getting to know each other and yet at the same time holding pieces of themselves back - John was slowly changing, taking on more distinct form around the edges, and facial features starting to appear as if an artist were taking the first steps towards creating a rough sketch.

 

Sherlock became more and more determined to solve this mystery, and he took to devoting several hours each day to research and tracking down any information that could be found to help him unlock this puzzle. What he couldn’t find with a google search on his own laptop, he found by burying himself in the books and documents of the London Library. He was sorely tempted to ask Mycroft for help, but he would never betray John in that way. In fact, Sherlock was surprised Mycroft hadn’t already twigged to John’s unique nature. His brother was known to conduct extensive background checks on any and all persons who had any kind of regular contact with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock finally did uncover who John Watson actually was, or rather _had_ been. However, the conclusion he came to as to who John Watson was _now -_ that deduction turned out to be _completely_ wrong.

 

***

 

Sherlock stared at the obituary on the microfiche. This was where all his accumulated research, observations, and information shared directly from John had led him to. But it was impossible. How could such a thing be? And yet the words were right there; he had read them with his own eyes. In fact, he had reread them several times, just to be sure. Which was a completely illogical act, something Sherlock Holmes never did. This is what he had been reduced to, by this impossible knowledge.

 

The document he was sitting in front of was dated August 1880. It listed a Captain John Hamish Watson as part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers (a regiment that didn’t even exist in modern times). He had been an army doctor, and he was listed as missing in action after the Battle of Maiwand. No body had been found, but he had been presumed dead at the time. Only one family member survived him, a Miss Harriet Jane Watson.

 

Born July 7, 1852.  Died July 27, 1880.

 

Try as he might, just to leave no stone unturned (and to delay the acceptance of an uncomfortable truth), Sherlock scoured the archives for several years following the date of death, but no further mention of Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was ever made.

 

Not an extraterrestrial alien.

 

Not the result of a scientific experiment, or of an industrial accident.

 

A human being who had died over a hundred years ago.

 

And who was now living at 221B Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes.

 

The only explanation was that Sherlock Holmes was living with a ghost.

 

But that was _impossible._

 

It would turn out that the truth was even _more_ impossible.

 

***

 

A sense of betrayal swept through Sherlock as he walked home, clutching his coat tighter around himself. He tried to shrug it off, because it was coming from a purely irrational place. John had done nothing to mislead him; Sherlock had known right from the start that he was an anomaly, something _new_ that he had never encountered before. John had even presented himself up front as a mystery for Sherlock to solve.

 

But somehow, the thought that John was in fact _dead -_ had in fact been dead for over a century, in a tremendously violent way - it made Sherlock shiver and feel overwhelmed with a sense of sadness and loss. An ache blossomed in his chest, and he rubbed at it absently.

 

Unpleasant or not, the fact remained that this conclusion was the only one that made any sense to him, and more importantly the only one that fit all of the facts. Granted, he probably didn’t have _all_ the information, but the only way to get that was to confront John directly and just ask him. But he was afraid of what that would mean. He had come to rely on John’s presence in his life. In fact, he had grown quite - _attached_ , it would seem, during these past months. What if when Sherlock asked for the truth in detail, and John gave it to him - what if that meant that John would leave afterwards? Maybe his whole purpose had been to gift Sherlock with a puzzle to solve, something to keep him engaged and interested, and once the mystery was neatly tied up his whole reason for being with Sherlock would be gone.

 

But no. John was his friend. The first one that Sherlock had ever allowed himself to have. That fact had sort of snuck up on him, it seemed. In his mind he had taken it for granted, but he hadn’t really allowed himself to consciously think about the fact and what it meant. Sherlock had always believed that he wasn’t capable of having a friend, and it followed logically that he was also incapable of _being_ one. But that hadn’t been his experience with John.

 

John was his friend.

 

_John was his friend……_

 

 

_Looking up at the night sky and fixing his gaze on one particular star._

 

_Impulsively chanting that ridiculous rhyme about wishing upon a star._

 

_“I wish that I had a friend.”_

 

_Watching the star he had wished on disappear from the sky in a display of brilliance._

 

_John Watson, a man without a face and with a radiance surrounding him, limping into his lab not two weeks later._

 

 

When the penny dropped, Sherlock sucked in a breath and abruptly stopped walking. He stood in the middle of the pavement, hands fisted in his pockets, staring at nothing and blinking rapidly. His mind tried to reject his deduction, but it wasn’t working. It all fell into place too neatly and elegantly to allow dismissal.

 

And really, when it came down to it, was it any less believable than the idea of a _ghost?_

 

Sherlock started walking again. He chewed his lip thoughtfully as he thought about what he was going to say when he next saw his flatmate.

 

***

 

Sherlock stepped through the door of 221b as if he were tiptoeing into the lair of a dangerous criminal. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust John; far from it. He just didn’t know what the end result would be from this conversation. He hoped for the best, but he had learned from experience never to expect it.

 

Sherlock’s eyes swept the sitting room and came to rest almost immediately on John’s form, sitting in his chair and reading the newspaper. Having seen John every day for the past six months, and for long stretches at a time, he hadn’t paid much attention to the physical changes that John had been exhibiting. They had happened so gradually that they hadn’t really consciously registered in his mind. But right now, he stood still and just let himself observe.

 

The glow that had surrounded John’s entire body was almost completely gone. When John looked up from his newspaper and noticed him, his cheeks stretched upward in what was obviously a smile, even though no mouth had formed as yet.  Blue eyes twinkled at him from beneath blond eyebrows. His nose was well defined, sitting prominently in the middle of his face. His ears stuck out a bit more, and his chin now had the barest hint of a cleft. Lines and slight wrinkles lent character to his face, from his laugh lines to the crow’s feet around his eyes to the creases on his forehead. His hair had a more lustrous appearance, gold and grey strands co-mingling to make him look quite distinguished, even handsome.

 

But all this was overshadowed by the _look_ on John’s face, one that Sherlock had never had directed at him before. Or at least, he had never noticed it before.

 

Fondness. Affection.

 

_Love._

 

Sherlock’s heart stuttered. He swallowed hard. His mouth was dry; he had to lick his lips and clear his throat before he was able to make his voice work.

 

“John, I believe I have solved the mystery of who you are.”

 

Immediately John stiffened, his expression shuttering. He carefully folded the newspaper and set it on the end table. He placed his arms on the armrests, both hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He steeled himself as if he were going into battle, and looked Sherlock right in the eye.

 

“And?” he asked. “What conclusion did you come to? Who am I?”

 

Sherlock smiled.

 

“You are John Watson, former officer and army doctor, flatmate and blogger for the world’s only consulting detective -- and best friend to Sherlock Holmes.”

 

John blinked. His posture relaxed slightly, and his hands unclenched.

 

“Best friend?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Of _course_ you are. _Of course_ you’re my best friend.”

 

John smiled. “Of course I am.”

 

“Those are all things that you are _now._ But it’s not what you were when you first came to me.” Sherlock slowly walked across the floor until he was standing in front of John, looking down on him.

 

“You were a star in the night sky. I wished on you, and you fell. I wished for a friend.” Sherlock cocked his head. He couldn’t help the insecurity that made his voice shake. “Is that what your purpose was? To grant my wish by becoming my friend?”

 

“Well…. technically, yes.” When Sherlock’s face started to close off, John swiftly lifted a hand.

 

“But Sherlock, it’s not something that’s required. A wish isn’t automatically granted; it’s up to the star whether or not to make it happen. I wasn’t compelled to do so; I _chose_ to do it.”

 

Sherlock backed away and sat in his own chair, still facing John. He brought his hands up to his mouth as his mind absorbed everything he was being told and connected it to what he had gleaned so far.

 

“You were born in 1852. You introduced yourself to me with the same name and occupation as you had back then. Clever of you, to wrap everything up in the truth. Hiding yourself in plain sight.  You were a perfectly ordinary human being until 1880 when, instead of bleeding out into the Afghan desert after being shot, you somehow got turned into a star. And stayed there for 130 years, until I called you down.”

 

“How - good god, the information age has progressed even further than I was aware. Yes. To all of it. Only I’m surprised that the thought hadn’t occurred to you that I might be a time traveller; that would have fit all the facts as well.”

 

Sherlock scowled, flapping his hand dismissively. “John, really. You’ve been watching too much Doctor Who. Time travel is a distinct impossibility.”

 

John smirked. “Right. And a human being turning into a star is a completely sane concept.”

 

“So what happened after?” Sherlock asked, ignoring John’s snark.  “Where did you land? How did you find me?”

 

“Well, I didn’t so much fall as - arrive? I mean, one minute I was in the sky, and the next, I was on the ground under a tree. Completely starkers, mind. The only reason I didn’t freeze to death was because I still retained some of my star-like qualities, including a very high internal temperature. My whole body was glowing still, but I had a definite humanoid shape. Arms, legs, body, head. I could feel that I was solid when I patted myself down. My - “

 

“What about injuries? Did you hurt yourself when you fell? What about your leg?”

 

“As I was _saying -_ my bloody leg also hurt like hell. It was the same leg I had been shot in, all those years ago, and I didn’t know if this was that same wound reasserting itself, or whether it had just been injured in my landing. At any rate, turns out I landed just outside of London. Good thing I had been observing things for several decades, or I would have fainted dead away at the impossibilities I was encountering. Observing from on high isn’t quite the same as almost being run over by a speeding lorry, I can tell you that.

 

“I’m not proud of what I did next, but I had to steal some clothing off some poor family’s clothesline so that I didn’t attract undue attention right away. The clothes were a poor fit, of course, but I had to make do. Then when I looked halfway presentable, I made my way to the first hospital I stumbled onto, claiming to be homeless (which wasn’t a lie), so that I could have my damn leg attended to.”

 

“And that’s when you found out it was a remnant of your old injury.”

 

“Yes. It manifested as a days-old gunshot wound, but with no evidence of a bullet being still lodged inside. I was treated, given some medication and fresh clothing (not new, but they fit me better than what I was wearing at the time), and a cane to use until my leg had properly healed. _Then_ I set out in search of you.

 

“All I had to go on was your name - Sherlock Holmes - but of course that’s a very _unique_ name, so it didn’t take me very long to find you. Our link - “

 

“Wait a minute,” Sherlock interrupted. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of him, eagerly soaking up all this new information that was so suddenly forthcoming. “How did you know my name?”

 

“Oh yes.” John gave him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to find this part - quite unbelievable, I’m afraid.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “Really, John? I’ve just found out that you’re - _were -_ a star, whatever you have to tell me can’t be any more preposterous than that.”

 

“Yes, well…. after you had wished upon me, and I had decided to answer your call…. your name made itself known, quite loudly, in my head. Well, my metaphorical head. It was like a very loud echo, proclaiming ‘SHERLOCK HOLMES’. Anyway, our link led me straight to you. You’re the only Sherlock Holmes in London, so - “

 

“John,” Sherlock said, exasperation colouring his tone.

 

“Yes?”

 

“What _link?”_

 

“Oh right. Sorry, again. When you wished upon me, and I accepted, a connection was forged between us. It’s why I landed where I did, just outside of London - because that’s where you were. London. It just so happened that _I’m_ from London as well, so even with all of the changes, I was able to navigate around fairly well. I was penniless, of course; I didn’t even have ID. Still don’t, actually.”

 

“Mycroft can take care of that easily enough. I have a feeling he knows everything by now anyway.” Sherlock scowled. “He always figures everything out before I do.” He shook himself. “Anyway, you were saying?”

 

John smiled. “I had no money, so I had to do a bit of panhandling in order to get around. And to eat, of course. You have no idea how simply _ravenous_ I was at first. Anyway, I eventually found myself back at my old stomping grounds - Bart’s Hospital. Which was quite an experience, let me tell you, comparing what it is now to when I first attended.”

 

Sherlock smiled. He thought of computers, and spectrometers, and electron microscopes.

 

“A bit different from your day?”

 

“You have _no_ idea.”

 

John continued, “Once I knew you worked at Bart’s, I looked you up on the internet and researched you. Found out what type of research you did, read up on it a bit, and decided that I would ask after you on the pretence that I had an academic interest. It was the easiest way I could think of to establish contact.”

 

Sherlock gave him a dubious look. “You’re a man of the nineteenth century, and you’re telling me that within two weeks you learned how to navigate the internet?”

 

“I’m a quick study. Well, I was at _first_. When I was still mostly a star. Stars are blessed with keen intelligence and observational skills. So yes, at first I picked up everything very quickly. It was only after a few weeks that the learning curve got a bit steep for me.”

 

Sherlock waved his hand at John. “So what’s going on here? You seem to be losing your starriness, and becoming more…. human? And why did no one else seem to notice your strange appearance except for me?”

 

John looked thoughtful. “I think the key is it had to be you, Sherlock. You created the connection when you wished on me, so it could only be you who could see me as I really was. And only your friendship that could allow me to - become human again.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. “Honestly, John - I think it just might be the other way around. There’ve been times when I didn’t even think _I_ was human. But being around you these past few months…..  If my - friendship - is the reason for your transformation, then maybe I am human after all?”

 

The hope he heard in his own voice, the wistfulness, made him cringe. He didn’t want to appear pathetic and weak in front of John.

 

“Oh Sherlock.” John’s voice was soft and tender. “Of course you’re human. You’ve _always_ been human. And you’re the best friend that a person could ever hope to have. I count my lucky stars that you chose me.”

 

John grinned at his own joke, and this time Sherlock could tell that’s what he was doing. His mouth was finally forming, along with lips and teeth. John’s smile was the most radiant thing Sherlock had ever seen.

 

Oh _god._ He had it bad, didn’t he? This was not good. Not good at all.

 

Then John’s smile faded, just a little, and a hesitant expression settled across his face. Hesitant, and a bit anxious.

 

“Sherlock, you _are_ my best friend. And if that’s all that you want, I’m perfectly content with that. But if you want - “

 

John ducked his head, his face turning beet red. Sherlock stared, fascinated.

 

“I find it difficult, this sort of stuff, Sherlock. But I know that in this time period, certain things are - permissible - that weren’t back in my time. And if you’d be at all interested in something _beyond_ friendship…. Damn it!”

 

John lifted his head and looked Sherlock square in the eye; at that moment Sherlock could not be more proud of him.

 

In a rush, John vomited out his words. “Sherlock, if you find yourself interested in entering into a romantic relationship with me, then I think you should know that I would be amenable to such an arrangement.”

 

Sherlock snorted. He couldn’t help it, John was just being so adorable with his old-fashioned language and his insecurity and the blushing all the way to the tips of his ears.

 

John scowled. He abruptly pushed himself up from his chair, and stood before Sherlock with his chin raised in defiance. An involuntary laugh escaped Sherlock.

 

“If you find this so amusing, I’ll just remove myself and spare myself the humiliation, shall I?”

 

With great effort, Sherlock swallowed his laughter. He stood up so that he and John were on equal footing. With all seriousness, he replied, “John. I reciprocate your desire for a romantic relationship. I’m afraid, though, that you’ll have to teach me the basics, since I’ve never been in one before.”

 

John grinned, all grievances forgotten and eyes shining with delight. “I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

 

He stepped forward and placed a hand on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and his lips parted expectantly. John leaned up, and gently placed a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. When he pulled back, Sherlock’s eyes were still closed and yet he grabbed John’s wrist to keep him from retreating any further. Then Sherlock grabbed John’s face with both his hands, surged forward and attacked John’s mouth with gusto. John stumbled backwards under the unexpected assault, but he recovered quickly. Then he gave as good as he got. Teeth clashed, lips nipped and tongues danced; it was a thoroughly messy endeavour, a fact that was made totally irrelevant by the enthusiasm of the participants.

 

This went on for several minutes during which time seemed to stand still. Sherlock kept his eyes closed and gave himself over to the myriad sensations that were sparking through his body. They were all novel to him, and it was fascinating to catalogue them as they were happening. John was solid and present and _real_ underneath his hands.

 

Suddenly another sensation invaded his awareness. Something was tickling his upper lip, something soft that was more irritating than pleasant. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He abruptly ended the kiss and stepped back, wiping at his mouth to get rid of the prickliness. He opened his eyes, and startled backward in horror.

 

“John.” He pointed at John’s mouth. “What is that monstrosity on your face? Are you really going to _keep_ that?”

 

John frowned. He reached up and stroked the blond moustache that was now apparent on his upper lip. “Why? Don’t you like it? I’ve had it for years. Well, I mean my former self did, anyway. Is it not - I know I’ve seen other men in this age with facial hair.”

 

Sherlock grimaced. “I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”

 

John giggled. “Well, that’s not a sentence you hear every day. Fine, I’ll shave it off if you really don’t like it.”

 

“I don’t. But I don’t want you stop kissing me either. I’ll suffer through it this one time. Now come here.”

 

John’s eyes twinkled. “Bossy,” he said as he stepped back into Sherlock’s personal space and wound his arms around him. One head tipped up, the other tipped down, and they continued on where they had left off.

 

As they resumed kissing, a glow pulsed forth from John’s body, enveloping him one final time in his previous brilliance. The light spread out and over Sherlock’s body as well, binding the two of them into a silhouette of white flame that shone steadily for several minutes. Then in a flash it was gone, leaving them as two ordinary men, a doctor and a detective, kissing in the middle of 221b’s sitting room while surrounded by the messy detritus of their shared life.

 

It could not have been more perfect.

 

 

FIN

 


End file.
